


for ever and a day

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, M/M, Reincarnation, you're getting everything you asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11363850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They meet, always in the same place, as the world shifts around them, and they find each other's hands in the crowd and smile.





	for ever and a day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rascalisafatcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rascalisafatcat/gifts).



The first time they meet, the very first time, they're fighting a war.

George Washington, weary with command, looks at the young man walking toward him, took in his rumpled uniform, his bright eyes, his hands curled into fists as if gripping either pen or sword, the light way his steps land. Too excited to be frightened, leaping at the opportunity to fight. He had lived his whole life waiting to take part in something that had meaning, lighting a fire with loss, feeding it with pain, building it into a bonfire.

The first time they meet, the first time their eyes lock, sparks. Electricity dancing down their spines. Hamilton's quick footsteps stutter, Washington's breath catches on a practiced greeting, and they're both silent for a moment, like time has frozen.

"Have you met Burr?" Washington says, and reality comes back to them in a rush. Hamilton rocks forward on his toes, smiling almost hesitantly.

"Yessir," and Burr joins in: "we keep meeting."

Washington dismisses him with a wave of his hand before he can speak another full sentence, not even glancing away from Hamilton. There was another long silence.

"Have I done something wrong, sir?" Hamilton asks, and his voice is copper and parchment and gunpowder.

"On the contrary," Washington replies, bronze and cotton and steel, and the world brightens.

* * *

The second time they meet, Washington is a king, draped in silk and fur, carrying the weight of the crown, and Hamilton kneels at his feet, dressed in the clothes of a servant, and says his name in a voice of gold and canvas and soap, smiling.

Washington descends the steps of the throne and replies, marble and velvet and sugar: "Hamilton."

He pulls him to his feet, laughs, kisses him without care for anyone else watching. "Alex, my Alex, you have returned to me."

Hamilton runs a thumb over his cheekbone, feels the stubble there, laughs, low in his throat. He leans up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "It is you, dear sir-" the word sends a chill down his spine, lesser than the electricity of their first meeting but still potent, "-that have returned to me."

They stand, surrounded by glass and and gold and light, king and servant, Washington and Hamilton, and the sparks of  _then_ return as a fire  _now_ , and everything is as it should be.

* * *

The third time they meet, Alexander (first names are proper now, one of the many things that changed between reincarnations) is halfway through his coffee order before he recognizes the face before him.

"George," he says, and his voice is paper and printer ink and syrup, full of awe and joy, and stares at him, wide-eyed.

"Old friend." George says to the other employees, fresh-baked bread and metal and coffee, and walks around the counter to embrace him.

They dance to old music once the store closes, Alexander's head against George's chest, taking in the smell of him, the pound of his heartbeat. His hands have different callouses than the times before, but they are still his hands, and they rasp against the stubble on Alexander's cheek when he cups his face to kiss him, and the stars come out over New York City (it's always there, no matter the when) and they relearn how to be happy. 

* * *

 The fourth time they meet, Alex looks up from the cash register, pushing his hair out of his face, and George says his name, silver and plastic and vanilla, awed.

"Are those flowers for me, George?" Alex asks softly, pollen and lavender and ice water, smiling the same crooked smile he always has, and George leans over the counter and kisses him, sharp and bright and familiar.

He waits around the flower shop until it closes, brushing his fingers against the back of Alex's hand, pressing soft kisses to the pulse point at his throat, resting his hands on his hips whenever they're out of view of other customers.

They leave the flower shop hand-in-hand, smiling brightly, talking of lives before and lives now, of what they've done and will do, of how many more cycles they will spend together, of flowers.

They fall asleep on the too-small couch, curled in on themselves and each other, George's hand in Alex's hair, Alex's hand on George's side, and from where their skin touches, warmth gathers and spreads.

* * *

 The fifth time they meet, they're students, and Alex races across the cafeteria and plows into George's side, laughing, pressing his forehead to his sternum, and George wraps him in his arms and lifts him, spinning him around until they're both dizzy and breathless and staring into each other's eyes, younger, with different creases at the edges, but the same eyes.

The first time they speak isn't until after school, walking home, Alex bouncing on his toes, George striding forward with the same military walk of his first life, meeting in a frenzied kiss of missing.

"You're even handsomer young." Alex says, ink and graphite and wool, laughter in his bright eyes.

"As are you." George replies, grass and paint and citrus, and lifts him in his arms again. "And easier to hold."

They trade notes and homework and kisses until George says, "this is mine." and "stay the night." and Alex says, "yes, please" and they lie together on George's bed and close their eyes and take in the weight of each other, different but familiar.

* * *

 

The sixth time they meet, on opposite sides of the street, Alex nearly causing an accident running into traffic to get to him, the first thing Alex says, all in a rush, his voice thyme and lemonade and mint toothpaste, is "it's legal now, marry me, finally?" and the first thing George says, cement and wood and roses, is "yes, yes, I love you, yes."

The wedding is a tribute to everything they ever were, in old-fashioned suits from their first life, the silk-and-jewels expense of their second, the pastries and coffee of their third, the flowers of their fourth, the careless rush of their fifth, the love of all of them.

They write their own vows, too short for six lifetimes, laughing at how long Alex's could have been, the hundreds of discarded pages of memories and "I love you's" and poetry.

Their friends tell stories, and they drink champagne, and kiss beneath an arch wrapped in green and blue and gold and white, and it's perfect.

They sleep with ringed hands clasped, and five lifetimes of hurt falls to five lifetimes of healing, falls to one lifetime of  _all is well._


End file.
